Bones of the Buried (33 page)

If only she could get information from North Africa, where the generals plotted and planned, but this was impossible and she could find no one in Madrid who knew any more than she did. Or, if
they did, they would not confide in her. She blamed herself for not having made closer contacts with the Spanish political leaders but none of them was willing to take a foreigner and a woman into
their confidence. She even managed to see Manuel Azaña himself. The new President of the Republic was charming but told her nothing she did not already know, mouthing complacent
clichés with which she had to pretend to be satisfied. She was reduced to flirting with him and despised herself, particularly as it achieved nothing. The Republic was ‘safe’,
‘in good shape’, ‘would face down its enemies’, and so on. ‘
Sol o sombra
,’ he intoned, using a metaphor taken from the bullring where seats are so named
depending on whether they are in the sun or the shade. ‘Spain is a country of contrasts, always in the sun or the shadow.’ His great moon face looked at her as if she were a child
asking for sugar-plums, which in effect was all he would give her.

She wondered idly if she
could
somehow ingratiate herself with the ‘other side’, with the army, but she knew it was impossible. For better or worse, she had identified
herself, very publicly, with the Republic. She was a known communist. The idea that she might be accepted as a nationalist was ludicrous. So she could only wander about Madrid annoying her friends
– all of whom seemed to have better things to do than listen to her complaints about how bored she was. David had vanished. She thought he might be in Barcelona but she wasn’t sure. Tom
Sutton was working long hours at the embassy and hardly ever went to Chicote’s. Even Maurice Tate was busy. He had discovered the Spanish did not trust the news they read in the newspapers
and he had set up what he called the British Council News Bureau which issued a newsletter in the form of several sheets of cyclostyled paper distributed free at the Institute and the embassy. It
gave world news, in Spanish, as he – with Sutton’s assistance and advice – wanted it to be read. ‘My dear, I really don’t have time,’ Maurice said with
exasperation when she badgered him to come on an expedition to take another look at the cave where Tilney’s body had been found. ‘Why don’t you help me with the newsletter if
you’ve nothing to do?’

‘Oh pooh, Maurice, I’m a journalist not a propagandist.’

‘Very well then,’ he said huffily, ‘don’t let me detain you.’

Disconsolate, she withdrew into herself, finding relief only in fierce sex with Belasco, but even he seemed able to resist her when he wanted to write. ‘Snap out of it, V. Go get a story
some place else. I ain’t got time to listen to you bewailing the absence of world war.’

Hester was concerned. ‘Look, honey, I never interfere with what my friends do in their spare time. Sleep with
el burro
if you want to – donkeys have big dicks – but just
remember, Belasco is another way of spelling bastard. I should know, cherub.’

Verity blushed deeply. She liked to think of herself as modern, hard-boiled, unshockable, but she still found Hester’s uninhibited discussion of sex profoundly unsettling.

‘Oh, I don’t . . . I don’t think Ben’s the love of my life or anything stupid like that. I know he’s married,’ she ended defiantly.

‘Yes, Gloria! Poor bitch! He’s married all right, but that’s not what I mean. He is just a phallus on legs. He
uses
women, damn it! One day, you’ll find a note on
your pillow saying, “Bye babe, I’m off to the war” and he’ll be out of your life.’

‘But he’s a great lover,’ Verity said, trying to match her friend in frankness.

Hester looked at her with a blend of pity and envy. ‘Well, kiddo, never say I didn’t warn you.’

A week after she got back to Madrid, a visit from Rosalía Salas depressed her even more, despite the spring weather which had overnight transformed the city. In just a
couple of days, the women threw off their heavy coats and thick shawls to dawdle about the town in thin cotton dresses, while the men lingered in groups at street corners viewing the girls
critically as they passed, cheering or whistling at the pretty ones and spitting tobacco juice out of the corners of their mouths at those unblessed by a good figure or a quick wit. Verity was
depressed because Rosalía had come to remind her of another failure. She had asked her, quite meekly, if she had discovered who had killed her man.

‘The
policía
– they have given up looking. They think your friend David Griffiths-Jones is his murderer but they don’t know how he did it.’

‘Oh no, Rosalía, I am certain he was in no way responsible. In any case, he was in gaol when Godfrey was killed.’

Rosalía sighed. ‘I know, Doña Verity, but it is strange is it not?’

‘How are you managing?’

‘How am I managing? Oh, I manage. I work in a bar near where I live.’

‘I thought you were an actress.’

‘Unemployed actress. Did you know,’ she continued with more animation, ‘I have joined the Communist Party? When Godfrey was alive, I loved him but I was not so interested in
the work he was doing but now . . . now I get satisfaction from being like him.’

‘I’ve been thinking. Why don’t you and I go and have another look at the cave?’

‘But why?’

‘I don’t know, but I feel we may have missed something. We were all so . . . upset when we were there.’

‘But the
policía
. . . your friend Lord Coreent . . . they have all looked.’

‘I know . . . I know, but . . . at least it’s doing something.’

Verity had plenty of time to think about who killed Godfrey Tilney and Stephen Thayer. She was English enough to find it difficult to sleep during the long siesta the Spanish thought essential,
even in times of political turmoil. She sometimes went to Ben’s apartment, to be made love to, but only when he invited her. He often preferred to write in the middle of the day and he made
it quite clear that, while sex was entertainment –
necessary
entertainment but still entertainment – writing was what he lived for.

Her room in the apartment she shared with Hester was pleasant and airy. It was at the back of the building – Hester’s was across the passage at the front – and, with the
shutters closed, it was cool and quiet. When Rosalía had left, she had taken up Ben’s novel based on his experiences in the war but she was unable to concentrate. Her mind was awhirl
with thoughts of Edward and of their visit to Eton – she reminded herself she must send Frank a picture postcard as she had promised. She gave up trying to read Ben’s book and lay back
in the semi-darkness, her hands behind her head, trying to think things through.

She couldn’t quite make up her mind if she believed that there really was any connection between the two deaths – Tilney’s and Thayer’s. As for Makepeace Hoden’s
‘accidental’ death in Africa – she really had no opinion about that. It ought to be possible to say for certain if anyone in Madrid who might possibly have killed Tilney had also
had the opportunity of killing either of the other two. For example, she knew Hester and Belasco had both been in Africa before coming to Spain; Maurice Tate, she had discovered, had been in
England before coming to Madrid. He’d been a teacher and then a school inspector. Belasco had said Tom Sutton had been in Nairobi before being posted to Madrid and it should be easy to check
that.

Then there was Thayer’s murder. She ought to ask each of them whether they had been in London at the time he had been killed. She was almost certain Ben and Hester had been in Madrid but
she supposed it was possible that one or other of them might have slipped out of town without her being aware of it. Yes, she would ask each of them – her ‘friends’ –
whether they could have killed Thayer. They might not tell her the truth but, if one of them was the murderer, it might – what was the expression? – rattle the bars of his or her
cage.

She closed her eyes; she felt a headache coming on. She couldn’t seriously believe that any of them could be a killer. She hesitated. Wait, was that really the case? Could she be
absolutely certain that Ben wasn’t a killer? He was a hunter, after all, but then, what motive could an American novelist have for killing Tilney – an Old Etonian communist activist
– or Thayer whom, as far as she was aware, he had never even heard of – let alone met? For that matter, what possible motive could any of them have had for stabbing Tilney? Nobody had
liked him, but that was a long way from saying he was
hated
. Only David might have had a motive: some sort of political quarrel, but he at least – thank goodness – was
proved
to be innocent. She shook her head in frustration and then wished she hadn’t as her headache worsened.

It was probable that Tilney had been killed by someone quite different, someone she did not know: a Spaniard, a political enemy. It was a comforting thought. There was another thing: Hoden and
Tilney had both been shot but Thayer had died from a knock on the head and the weapon had been a Buddha from his collection. She wished she had met him. Edward had described him to her but she
found it difficult to get a grip on his personality. In many ways, it seemed, he had been exactly how most people imagine an Etonian: smooth, charming, arrogant – but that was all
superficial. In one respect at least he was sincere: he was a devoted father. If anyone had threatened Charles, his father would have acted to protect him. Of that there could be no doubt. But had
anyone threatened Charles? There was no evidence of it.

Edward had called him sensitive and even generous but Verity had the feeling he had never really liked Stephen, otherwise surely they wouldn’t have lost touch. He had been under his spell
at Eton but Edward appeared to feel that his ‘dependence’ on his friend had been . . . unhealthy. Perhaps dependence always was since, by definition, it was one-sided. She shivered. She
had no understanding of homosexuality. She thought of it – when she thought of it at all – as perverse and unnatural. It was a relief to her that she could absolve Edward of any sexual
feeling for his friend. If there had been anything of that kind on Stephen’s part, Edward had been unaware of it. Anyway, Stephen had proved himself to be a red-blooded heterosexual with Dora
Pale. Was he
abnormally
highly sexed? She examined her own sexual adventures and blushed. If anyone had told her two years ago that she would be fornicating with a married American novelist
with no thought of love or marriage, she would have been disbelieving . . . horrified. Now, she understood more clearly how powerful sexual feelings were and how they could make someone throw
caution, principles and respectability to the winds. Any red-blooded boy would surely welcome the chance of learning about life and sex in the arms of a beautiful, older woman: it was probably most
schoolboys’ fantasy.

Was it about money then? Thayer was a banker and she had a deep-seated suspicion of all bankers. Edward was investigating his financial affairs and they looked pretty murky. And his politics?
Was he a Nazi sympathiser or just an amoral businessman doing deals where he could? In short, was Thayer a victim of his own weaknesses or an out and out villain? From what Edward had told her, she
was inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. One hard fact in all this speculation: Thayer’s killing had been different from Tilney’s. The latter had been ‘executed’
by a single bullet at close range. Thayer had been battered to death by someone in the grip of an uncontrollable impulse.

Tussle with it as she might, Verity could get no further forward. David was safe; that was the main thing. She put a hand to her forehead, which felt damp, and could feel a pulse throb in
protest. She wished David was with her now. She really didn’t like Belasco but at least he was here and the sex . . . she could not put into words what she felt about that. She was partly
ashamed. She belonged to a tradition of English motherhood which decreed that sex was something the man enjoyed and the woman suffered in order to bring forth children. That was not how it was for
Verity, so surely it must be wrong. Without seeing any connection, she wondered what Edward had found out in Frankfurt and wished . . . She fell into a deep sleep.

When she awoke, she felt better. Her head had stopped aching and she was calmer. She looked at her watch. It was half-past three and the day was cooling. She didn’t dare imagine what
Madrid would be like in July and August. She had a feeling that her ancestors must have been Norsemen because she worked and thought much better in the cold. She mentally shook herself. It was so
unlike her to sink into lethargy and despondency. There had to be
something
she could do. She considered for a minute; since she had time, the most useful thing was to be methodical. She
would compile two lists showing precisely where all her friends were at the time of Hoden and Thayer’s deaths and uncover any hint of a motive for murder. She was sure it would be a futile
exercise and there would be no connections beyond the ones she knew; that Ben had written a story based on Hoden’s death, for instance – she really
must
read that. It ought not
to be difficult but, thick-skinned as she was, there was some embarrassment about going round asking friends for alibis. She would have to be tactful and she wasn’t sure tact was her strong
point.

She would begin with Hester. She put on a dressing-gown and padded out to knock on her friend’s door.

‘Come in,’ Hester called.

‘Are you awake?’ she said unnecessarily.

‘Sure. What can I do for you?’

‘Oh, I just wanted to talk. You know, I’m still in a muddle about Godfrey Tilney and all that.’

‘Forget it, cherub. Who gives a shit?’

‘I know it’s silly. Tell me about Ben instead. How did you meet?’

‘In the States. I was just drifting around. He said come to Africa, so I did.’

Verity was shocked. ‘It can’t have been that casual?’

‘It was too. I know he’s a man and therefore a bastard, but at least he’s a different kind of bastard from my husband.’